


Both Looking On The Same Side Of The Moon

by silverlining99



Series: New Orleans [2]
Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-10
Updated: 2011-01-10
Packaged: 2017-10-29 21:15:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/324249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silverlining99/pseuds/silverlining99
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Second chances.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Both Looking On The Same Side Of The Moon

**Author's Note:**

> Title from "Same Side of the Moon" by Corrinne May.

It's been seven years.

Seven years, a medical degree, a marriage, a child, a divorce, and the bulk of his requisite Starfleet training, all crammed into what constitutes barely a quarter of his life so far.

And somehow, _somehow_ , the real kick in the pants, after all of that and when he finally sees her again, isn't that she's suddenly there right in front of him, or that she's even more beautiful now than he'd ever thought her before.

It's that she doesn't have the slightest clue who he is.

 

 

It is, quite possibly literally, the last thing McCoy would expect in the midst of hauling Jim onto the _Enterprise_ and depositing him on a biobed before stomping off, muttering under his breath. He goes to change his clothes and then wanders into the dispensary to make sure he's got remedies for the more common side-effects of the mud flea vaccine close at hand.

He nearly walks straight into the back of a nurse who's absorbed in rapidly inventorying the supplies. "'Scuse me, sorry," he says, leaning close and reaching around her for a vial of ampicillin. "Any thoughts on where I might find some metoprolol, Nurse...?"

She glances over her shoulder as he withdraws. "Chapel. Bottom shelf, down on the left."

McCoy stops short.

He's known her name for a year now; he seared the reminder of her delicate features and sparkling eyes back into his brain, straight off her personnel record. And still the sight of her, the living and breathing _reality_ of her within reach after seven years, hits him hard. It knocks the breath right out of him.

The night they met he knew he wanted to touch her about ten seconds after first laying eyes on her.

He's gone and shot that record all to hell.

Something akin to but not quite the same as nausea churns in his stomach. When he doesn't move she looks up again from her work, just another brief, curious slice of her attention. "Down there," she prompts gently, with a gesture. "Give me a yell if you need anything, okay? I'd be happy to run you through how I've got this place organized just as soon as things settle down a little."

McCoy forces himself, reluctantly, to stop staring at the back of her neck and stoop down to grab the refill he needs. "I'd appreciate that," he says slowly. "I -- sorry again for the interruption."

"I'll forgive you this once," she says with a light laugh, focused on counting vials again. "Hey. You got a name or should I just go with Doctor?"

"McCoy." He clears his throat and struggles with a flash of annoyance. At her for the absolute lack of recognition, at himself for having the gall to expect anything more. "It's McCoy."

"Well then, Doctor McCoy." She shoves the crate she's been digging through back into place and turns to him, tapping away rapidly at her PADD. "Nice to meet you. Don't make a mess of my medical bay and I think we'll get along just fine."

" _Your_ medical bay?"

"You bet your ass it's my medical bay." She looks up and smiles, winks. "And if Doctor Puri tries to claim otherwise, keep in mind that he's a lying old coot."

Good god, he thinks as he gets a good look at her face for the first time, but she went and get even prettier. "I'll do that," he manages. His voice comes out hoarse. "I assume it's best to humor him, though."

Her smile widens. "Smart man. It does keep him happy, yes. And trust me, life is a lot easier when he's happy. Now scoot. I have a lot to get done."

 

 

Things are quiet, until suddenly they're not.

Jim, he discovers with exasperation, snores. Loudly. He ignores the kid and goes about getting himself oriented to the medical bay, and keeps catching glimpses of Christine -- _Chapel_ , he reminds himself firmly -- moving to and fro. She's there in the corner of his eye when he needs cortisone and slaps a fresh hypospray into his hand without delay, and then he doesn't see her again until everything has gone straight to hell.

The first thing he does see, returning after the Narada's attack, is a small secondary explosion knocking her and another nurse off their feet, and her scrambling to put out the flames engulfing the man's shirt with her bare hands. His instinct is to go to her, to help, to make sure she's okay, but the both of them are moving and there are far worse emergencies needing handling.

An hour later, though, he finds he can't keep ignoring her for other matters. "Nurse Chapel," he says quietly, pausing at her side as she scans a bloodied engineer. "A moment, please."

She sets down the tricorder she's using -- fumbling it slightly as she does, he notices grimly -- and follows him to another biobed. It's taken, but the ensign on it is sitting up and there's room to share. "Hands," McCoy orders firmly. "Come on, let me see."

He doesn't miss her short, irritated sniff, but lets it slide unremarked. When he just waits, she sighs out loud and extends her hands -- palms down. "For Christ's sake," he snaps in sudden irritation, and grabs her forearms to force her to show him the mess of blisters and scabs spreading from the tips of her fingers all the way to the thin skin at her wrists. "As stubborn as ever, I see."

"Excuse me?" she snipes right back, looking up at him as she tries to pull away from his grasp.

He meets her eyes and raises an eyebrow, and takes a perverse delight in the way her expression suddenly smooths from its faintly puzzled, _very_ annoyed twist to slack-jawed amazement. The blood drains from her face and she abruptly stops resisting his hold. "Oh my god," she breathes. Something loosens in his chest at knowing he's still in her memory somewhere. " _L._ McCoy. Leonard."

"One and the same." He quirks a small smile at her and tugs gently, guides her to rest her knuckles on the surface of the bed. "Let me take care of this, would you? I'm damn tired of watching you wince every five seconds."

"Yeah," she mumbles. She holds still as he starts running a handheld dermal unit on a debridement cycle. The only sign of the sharp sting he knows she must feel is an occasional tremor in her fingers. When he switches to the regeneration cycle, she says absently, "Thank you. All I had time for earlier was a few seconds to seal the raw spots."

"Stubborn," he repeats. "Word of advice: next time you need to put out a fire? Use something other than your own damn skin."

"What can I say, I used what was, uh. Handy." He glances up to see her flash a wan smile. Her eyes are still wide and startled as she regards him warily, and he finds it nearly impossible to look away as he manipulates each of her hands in turn to check her dexterity. "Done? We've still got dozens of people hurting way worse than me."

McCoy lets her go, reluctantly. "Yeah. Full nerve scan later, got it? You may need a longer run for deeper damage."

"Sure." She examines her fresh, pink skin and flexes her fingers a few times. When she looks at him again, she seems confused. "I... okay, wow. I really don't know what to say here."

Like he does, he thinks with bitter amusement. "Take your time, I'm sure you'll come up with something. I don't remember you being short on words," he says dryly. She flushes visibly. "Back to work in the meantime, hm?"

"Right," Christine says. She backs off slowly, three entire steps before finally turning away.

If she thinks of anything, there's no time to pause and share it. In between treating the never-ending flow of injuries both small and large, dealing with several rounds of Jim's unique brand of unabashed insanity, contemplating the possible destruction of the entire goddamn _Earth_ , bracing himself a few more times for certain death, and trying to save not only Captain Pike's life but also every last shred of his central nervous system, the only words they have any opportunity to exchange revolve around status reports and vital signs.

Still, she manages a miracle without even opening her mouth. When he closes the incision over Pike's spine and sets his autosuture down, suddenly vibrating with every ounce of tension he's had to keep tightly contained, she reaches right over Pike's prone body and touches her fingers to his wrist, just holds his gaze in silence until he can draw in a shaky breath and nod shortly.

She mirrors the motion before withdrawing her hand. "Vitals are holding steady," she says quietly. "Take a break. I'll take care of getting him moved and settled."

McCoy finds himself at a loss for any response, nothing seeming adequate to convey the rush of gratitude he feels for that small touch and wealth of understanding. He walks out stiffly and learns from M'Benga that Jim has yet to report in, and he gets no small relief from having an excuse to stalk to the bridge and glare silently at Jim from next to the turbolift until Jim sighs and limps over to him. "I'll give you ten minutes," he says. The authority in his voice would be convincing if his eye wasn't twitching with fatigue.

"You'll give me," McCoy grinds out, taking Jim by the arm to haul him into the 'lift, "as long as I need to make sure you're still on the _right_ side of half-dead, 'cause you damn sure look like you crossed that line awhile ago."

"Bones," Jim protests, his voice nearly a whine. "I have stuff to do! I'm the captain!"

"Not if I decide to sedate you into next week, you're not." McCoy crosses his arms and scowls at the flashing lights on the console. Jim leans wearily against the opposite wall panel. "So what's going on?"

"Weeeeeell... we ejected the warp core, so we're sort of dead in the water. Pretty much all the auxiliary power we've got is being sucked up by maintaining life support and sealing all the hull breaches, so no impulse engines either." Jim shrugs at McCoy's incredulous stare. "Come on, Bones, look on the bright side. We're still alive."

"Will wonders never cease," McCoy mutters. He shoos Jim to the medical bay and to a biobed. "Dare I hope we've got some way off this deathtrap?"

"Watch how you talk about my ship, Bones." McCoy rolls his eyes and pushes Jim to lie down and submit to a full body scan. "Help's on the way, I promise. There's a freighter due any minute to secure our position, and Denobula has rerouted their closest ship to give us all a lift back to Earth." Jim groans theatrically as McCoy peels his shirt up and positions a bone mender across his ribs. "I'll have your feet back on solid ground within an hour or two, tops?"

"I'll believe that when I see it." McCoy peruses the results of Jim's scans. "Okay, look. You need about three hours of poking and prodding and fiddling to clean up the absolute mess you've managed to make of yourself, and you're really gonna want to be doped up for most of it. So I'll cut you a deal. You stay still for fifteen minutes so those ribs heal _right_ and I can stop worrying about you puncturing a lung, and I'll let you wait on the rest if you swear to me here and now it's your first order of business once we're home."

"Deal," Jim says immediately. McCoy glares at him. "I swear, I swear! Hey, is there any way you make this thing itch less?"

"Sorry, Jim. You --" He stops short, suddenly aware of Christine at his side. "How's Captain Pike?"

"Absolutely fine," she assures him. "I've got Nurse Kieran sitting with him. I see you decided you weren't quite done patching up battered captains."

"This one hardly counts," McCoy says dryly. "It's gotten to be a habit."

Jim starts to sit up on his elbows, but flops back again when McCoy stops him with a firm hand against his sternum. " _Ow_." He peers at Christine. "You obviously know who I am, but I don't think I've had the pleasure."

McCoy watches Christine watch Jim. "You haven't," she says simply. "Christine Chapel, sir."

Jim bolts upright before McCoy can stop him, gapes at Christine. "No shit!"

Christine stares at Jim, then turns her gaze on McCoy. He can't read a damn thing in her eyes, but has a sinking feeling that what he sees is betrayal. "Yes, shit," she confirms tartly, without looking away. "Excuse me, Captain. Doctor. I just wanted to let you know how Captain Pike was doing."

She walks away, her posture stiff. McCoy feels so tired he could collapse where he stands, even as Jim levels an accusing glare on him. "You said you weren't going to give me anything!"

"I _didn't_."

"So I'm not hallucinating. Is this a joke, then?" McCoy just shakes his head wearily. Jim grins slowly. "Christine. Chapel. Holy crap! So?"

"So _nothing_ , Jim. Drop it. And lie down before I do sedate you!"

Jim falls back with a huffy sigh. "Don't think we're not talking about this, Bones. Later, when you're less cranky."

"If you don't shut up and stay still," McCoy snaps, "I have serious doubts I'll let you live to see that day."

 

 

Returning to Earth is a a strange kind of eventful that amounts to a meaningless blur. As soon as he's done hassling the team that takes over Pike's care, McCoy spends an hour giving what he knows is a _short_ preliminary report directly to a commander from Admiral Barnett's office before being released with assurances that he'll be notified of when to report for further debriefing.

Once free, he knows what he can't put off any longer, can't even bring himself to wait until he gets to his room. He veers to a public comm terminal and calls Jocelyn. She answers immediately, looking tired and haggard. "Oh thank God, you son of a bitch," is all she says at the sight of him.

It's the first time in years he's heard her voice without a trace of contempt. It doesn't feel like much of a victory. "That about sums it up," he mutters. "Jo?"

"Sleeping," Jocelyn says. "She has no idea -- I didn't want to scare her. Hold on, though. I'll wake her up."

"No, don't." He sighs heavily. "I can't think of a damn thing better than her safe in her bed right now. I'll call to talk to her tomorrow."

"Do that. Better yet, come see her. She misses you."

"I'll see what I can do. I'm not sure how this will shake out."

"Of course. When you can, then." Jocelyn hesitates. "Leonard--"

"Let's leave it there, Joce." He manages a weak smile. "You look great."

"I look like shit," she says with a laugh. "So do you. Tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow," he agrees, and cuts the transmission.

When he walks outside, he takes a moment to appreciate the sun on his face, the gusts of fresh air blowing in from the bay. There's not really anything to do, he supposes, but go try to get some real rest, secure in the knowledge that he's on solid ground again. The second he turns down the pathway to his dorm, though, he stops short at the sight of Christine, slumped on a bench and silently watching the tides of people scurrying to and fro.

He should walk away, he knows. He should _forget_ this, should have forgotten it years ago.

He sighs and resigns himself to the slow trudge over to her. "Mind?"

Christine glances up at him and tilts one graceful eyebrow in slight surprise. "It's a big bench," she says. "Are they clearing command crew already? That's...shockingly efficient."

"I'm pretty sure it has more to do with nobody knowing what the hell to do about anything than any kind of actual efficiency." He sinks onto the bench with a relieved groan. "How are you holding up?"

She hums noncommittally under her breath. "Jim Kirk knew my name," she says, instead of answering. When he looks at her she's giving him the same steady, unreadable gaze she'd had on the ship.

"Jim," he admits with a sigh, "knows just about every damn thing I've ever been stupid enough to get drunk and let slip."

"You...got drunk and talked about me."

He doesn't know what to make of her mild tone. He kicks his legs out and crosses them at the ankle. "I got drunk, that's for sure. Few days later Jim wandered into my room, tossed a list on my desk, and wandered right out again."

"A list?"

"Yeah. Seems he got in his head I might have some reason for wanting a name query on all active medical personnel in Starfleet, first initial 'c'."

He's a damn liar, he acknowledges to himself; he remembers exactly what he'd told Jim. He also remembers weeks of calling up public records, working through Jim's list but never managing more than one or two at a time before he felt like too much of an obsessive creep to continue. And suddenly he'd been staring at her service photo at three in the morning and feeling torn between relief and regret that she'd done exactly what she'd said she would and was light years away, out of reach. "I'm sure he just got a kick out of putting a face to the name."

She eyes him doubtfully. "It looked like more than that," she says bluntly. "Who exactly does he think I am to you?"

The road not taken, McCoy thinks grimly. He shrugs. "We were waxing nostalgic. You came up. Jim has an active imagination and likes to make a joke of everything."

"Hm."

"That it? 'Hm'? The girl I remember didn't give up so easily."

She trains her gaze across the quad, leaves him looking at the sharp lines of her profile. "'The girl you remember'," she echoes. "That says it all, don't you think? You remember a girl."

The bleak defeat in her voice tightens something in his chest. "Christine." He can't stop himself, reaches and rests his hand over hers atop her thigh. It's something, he figures, that she doesn't pull away. "Do you want to know what I remember?" She doesn't look at him, just keeps staring off into the distance. "I remember that you were about the feistiest little thing I'd ever come across."

Her lips purse, just a little. "Feisty. I get that a lot."

"Can't say as I'm surprised to hear that." He realizes he's brushing his thumb across her knuckles, but can't quite talk himself into stopping. "So. Are you waiting for someone?"

"No, I... I just wanted to sit for awhile. I haven't come planetside in three years. Hell, I took a temp posting on the starbase instead of the leave I was due when we came in for overhauls." She laughs sharply, bitterly. "Seemed like I should take a few minutes to appreciate my good fucking fortune."

McCoy takes a chance and slips his fingers under hers, squeezes slightly. "Mind if I stick around and take a few my own damn self?"

"Like I said, it's a big bench," she mutters, but her hand curls around his and stays there. After several minutes, she says, "Doctor Puri, you know, he was running the medical operations up there until the Enterprise could take on crew. Turned out we worked pretty well together."

"Yeah? Impressive. Rest his soul, but that man had a reputation as the most demanding bastard ever to terrorize Starfleet Medical."

"It was well-deserved, that reputation." She smiles softly. "We spent three months butting heads on a daily basis. Then six weeks ago he came in one morning and slapped transfer papers down in front of me. Said I had to agree to be his head nurse and save him from the 'bossy little Bolian fellow' Starfleet was trying to foist on him." She pauses to swallow hard, and she rolls her eyes up towards the sky and blinks rapidly. "Which is just ridiculous, you know? I'm _way_ bossier than any Bolian. I think he really just liked being able to gawk at my legs every day."

McCoy bites back the response that immediately comes to mind at that, just watches her gravely as she ducks her head and stares at their joined hands. "Such a dirty old man," she says softly. Her voice wavers. "I'd have gone back out on the Farragut if he hadn't taken a shine. I never asked him what he saw in me, I never even really thanked him, I thought there would be time..."

The pieces come together slowly for McCoy. More than two years served on a ship that no longer exists, and six months within spitting distance of home without ever coming down. Her quiet vigil, the eye of a hurricane of people rushing to contact their loved ones. Something she'd said, so many years ago. "Christine, do you have anywhere to go?" he asks quietly. "Tell me the truth."

Her fingers twitch around his hand. "Not really." The sound catches thickly in her throat. "No big deal, I was going to go get a hotel room. I just needed to-- rest. Get my bearings. I'm fine now."

"What you are," he says firmly, "is coming with me."

"Leonard--"

"Don't argue. We're both on the verge of keeling over from exhaustion and my room is two minutes away. You're going to come eat something and get some sleep. There'll be plenty of time to figure out something else tomorrow."

She glances at him with a sigh. "As bossy as ever, I see," she says pointedly.

It feels unexpectedly nice to laugh. He stands up and pulls her along with him. "Come on. You like pasta? Won't take me but a few minutes."

In his room, Christine walks in and stands restlessly in the center. "Make yourself comfortable," McCoy invites, gesturing to his one armchair. "Mi casa, you know. I'll get the food started."

"Could I--" She stops short. "Never mind."

"Out with it."

"I just, I really want a shower more than anything right now." She gestures futilely at her filthy uniform. "Everything I own is on the ship."

Fuck, he thinks, he should have realized. "Yeah. Of course." He rummages through his drawers and produces a t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants. "Towels are under the sink. Take your time, I'll have things ready whenever you're done."

She just nods and disappears into his bathroom. She's in there for a long time, far longer than he needs to cook up a batch of noodles and mix a quick sauce. By the time she comes out, scrubbed clean and swimming in his clothes -- he doesn't even know how she got those pants to stay up -- with her hair pinned up in a wet bun, he's given in to his hunger and starting eating. "Sorry," she murmurs, sliding into the chair across from him.

He notices her eyes are rimmed with red, but doesn't comment on it. She pokes listlessly at her food with a fork and manages a few bites, then looks up at him apologetically. "I'm sorry," she says again. "I can't. Not right now."

"It's fine. Go on, lie down." He watches her, worried, as she shuffles to his bed and crawls under the covers, pulling them all the way over her head. She goes still almost immediately and doesn't move again.

With a sigh and a fatigue heavier than any he's ever felt, McCoy goes about putting away the food as quietly as possible, then takes his own shower quickly. Unbidden, while he's drying off, the thought rises of just how many of his classmates, his _friends_ , are now dead. He's been able to keep it clamped down beneath the anesthetizing demands of worrying about anyone and everyone still left, about _himself_ , but now there's nothing but realization.

Seven ships and an entire goddamn planet, gone.

McCoy retches violently into the toilet and spends ten minutes brushing the taste of bile from his mouth.

When he trudges back out, Christine is in the exact same huddled lump, completely hidden away. He dims the lights and slips beneath the covers on the far side of his bed, lies on his back staring into the darkness. Christine's breathing is anything but even, and once, just once, she slips up and sniffs audibly.

He falls asleep somewhere in the middle of debating himself whether it would cross a line to reach out and pull her close.

He wakes up and it's still dark, and he can make out Christine sitting up at his side, hugging her knees. "Hey," he says groggily. His voices comes out raspy. "Okay, there?"

She twists slowly to look down at him. Her hair has come loose and is spilling in loose waves over her shoulders. "The Vulcans," she says. "They looked so lost and-- and they can never go home again. I was just thinking about... taking things for granted."

"Um." He tries to clear the fog from his thoughts. "Christine --"

"Shh." She stretches out slowly along his side, propped on her elbow, and presses her palm to his cheek. "Stop me if this isn't okay," she whispers, and touches her lips to his.

Okay, McCoy thinks. Such a weak, stupid word. He opens easily to take the soft, slick heat of her tongue, something in him warning to let her have this, to let her keep control. She kisses him with a slow intensity and her hand drags down his throat and across his chest, his stomach, never so much as a pause before slipping under the waist of his shorts and curling around his stirring cock. "I thought about you for months. About how good you made me feel," she mumbles against his jaw. She presses her forehead to his temple and he just breathes as steadily as possible while she strokes him patiently to full hardness. "There were nights, I'd wake up wet and get myself off remembering everything you did to me."

McCoy presses a tight fist to the mattress at his side, struggles not to interfere even as she takes her hand away and shifts around, kicking free of his sweatpants. She slides one leg over his and peels his shorts carefully down, just enough to free his straining erection. Shifting forward on her knees, she takes hold again and guides him to her, drags the head of his cock from the slick promise of her entrance to her clit and back again, then bites her lip and sinks down on him. "Oh," she breathes.

He sucks in a hissing breath through his teeth and stares up at her as she begins to move, slowly. She tosses her head to make her hair fall over a single shoulder, lets her hands roam across his abs and chest, exploring. Her nails scratch lightly over the thin cotton of his shirt and her hips move easily, loosely, limiting the slide of his cock within her to shallow strokes. "Christine," he grinds out, not sure how much more he can take.

She just hums under her breath and sweeps her hands over his shoulders and down his arms, tickles lightly at his hands until he flexes them open and lets her tangle their fingers together, lets her guide his hands to tuck under the pillow beneath his head and hold them there. Her body folds down on his, presses close. "Leonard," she gasps, rocking back on his cock. She sucks his neck, slides her tongue along the shell of his ear. "God, yes."

He can't do it anymore; he draws his knees up and digs his heels in and thrusts up, jostles her. "Yes," she says again, a shade triumphant, falling into a firm rhythm with him. She keeps his hands in a firm grip, holding him down. She finds his mouth, moans into the kiss, and her breath comes faster and when she comes it's with a cry that sounds almost anguished, a flutter of her muscles around him, a shudder of her entire body.

She releases his hands at last. He takes it as his cue and slides them up around her ribcage, down her back and across the slope of her ass. Getting a good hold, he snaps his hips up, slaps into her. He's so close already, the pull of her orgasm dragging him right along behind, and it's no time at all before he's emptying himself into her.

This, McCoy thinks dazedly, thrusting through it, _this_ is coming home again.

They go still slowly. Christine mouths lazily at the rough, stubbled skin beneath his jaw, slumped atop him, quiet. He rubs her back in long, sweeping motions, hands burrowed under her t-shirt, and after a time he realizes she's fallen asleep.

It's awhile before he can bring himself to ease her carefully to the side, and when she murmurs in her sleep and reaches for him, tucks herself close, he recognizes that he's no longer standing at the precipice of something dangerous.

He's gone right over the damn edge, and is already halfway down. He wraps his arms around her and goes back to sleep.

 

 

 

The next time he wakes it's light out, and Christine is just crawling back into bed. She sees him blinking at her and curls up on her side, facing him, before speaking. "I borrowed your terminal. They've issued a general notice -- we're on stand down until further notice. Special session for all Enterprise personnel is being arranged."

"Great," McCoy yawns.

"And I ate the rest of dinner. Oh, and the last of your bread. And an orange. I hope that's okay."

"Disgusting, but just fine. Did you get enough sleep in the midst of all that foraging?"

"Sure," she says, too lightly. "Tell me what you told Kirk about me."

It is, he feels, too goddamn early for this. "You don't want to know."

"I do, actually."

"Nothing much," he lies. "We were just...recounting the adventures of youth. I told him I -- I met an amazing woman once, sometimes indulged in wondering 'what if'. That's it."

He can tell she doesn't believe him, the way her eyebrow arches. But she lets it go, mercifully. "I've been going over things in my head," she tells him. She reaches out absently and rests her hand on his chest, rubs the side of her thumb against his skin. The casual familiarity of it, the simpleness, makes his breath tighten. "Trying to make my memories less fuzzy, you know? Details faded over time, I guess. But I do remember one thing very clearly."

McCoy lays a hand over hers, presses her palm flat to his chest, over his heart. "What's that, then?"

"You hated the idea of Starfleet," she says with a small smile. "So what gives? What are you _doing_ here?"

"Believe me, I'm still trying to figure that piece of idiocy out." He snorts lightly. "Life didn't exactly happen as planned. For me, at least. Seems like you did exactly what you said you were going to."

"More or less," she agrees. "It wasn't that complicated a concept. Go to school, go to space. Done and done."

"Yeah, 'cause the Academy's an absolute _breeze_ ," he mutters, rolling his eyes. "Just like making Head Nurse of the Federation flagship. Christ. Sell yourself short to someone who doesn't know better, would you?"

Christine just shrugs one shoulder and tickles her fingertips against his skin. "One foot in front of the other for years will get you pretty far. It's not like I went and qualified to step in as CMO without even having _graduated_ yet, or anything. Or performed a few things just shy of miracles on an open brain stem in the middle of emergency maneuvers."

The absolute unmitigated nightmare of the previous day comes flooding back. "Damn it," he groans. "Had to remind me, huh?"

"It's not something _I'm_ going to forget anytime soon," she says lightly, and pauses. "Now you're itching to get to the hospital and check on him, aren't you?"

"And make sure nobody's gone and done anything grossly incompetent to compromise his recovery, you mean? Pretty much." He sighs, resents everything pressing in on him, demanding that he move. "Jesus, I need to call home, too."

Christine blinks in surprise. "For fuck's sake, Leonard, you left people waiting to hear from you all night?"

"No," he sighs, and sits up. "But my daughter was asleep already."

Christine sits up slowly. "You... have a daughter."

"I -- yeah. Joanna. She's almost five." McCoy peers at her carefully, tries to read something, anything, in her perfectly blank expression. "She's back home in Georgia. With my _ex_ -wife."

"Oh," Christine breathes. She reaches out slowly, touches her fingers gently to his knee. "I'm sorry."

"I'm not. It was a colossal fucking mess, but I got Jo out of the deal. She makes every minute worth it."

Her smile is slow but blinding. "That's sweet."

He can't help but smirk. "What, that I'm nuts about my kid? Well hell, aren't you easy to please."

Christine rolls her eyes and flicks his leg. "Shut up. What's she like? Does she take after you?"

"In some ways." McCoy tips his head and gazes at her. It hits him suddenly, low in his gut, the memory of how she'd looked in those last few moments, tousled and wrapped in a robe and with sadness and regret lurking behind the brave front she put up. "I don't want to talk about Jo right now."

Christine looks taken aback. "Oh. Okay, I'm sor--"

"I want to talk about what happened here last night," he cuts in bluntly. Her eyes widen even more. "Whatever it was."

"It was... we had sex," she says slowly. She seems confused. "I told you to stop me if you didn't want--"

"I'm not saying I didn't want to," he says impatiently. "I'm saying I need to know what the hell to _do_ with it in my head. So that's what it was. Sex. That's it."

Her shoulders stiffen. "Of course. What else would it have been?"

Of course. "Right," he mutters. He gets up and scrubs a hand through his hair, tries to ignore the annoyance clouding his thoughts. "All right, then. All I needed to know." He finds it hard to look at her, all of a sudden, so he stalks into the bathroom and occupies himself with the mindless tasks of taking a piss, brushing his teeth. He can't find a direction for his anger, has no idea why he even feels it. It's simply there, suddenly, burning beneath the surface.

When he emerges Christine is gone. The clothes he'd given her are folded neatly and stacked at the foot of the bed. His comm screen is on, a short typed message luring him over. 'Lots to do today. Thanks for the hospitality. -- C.'

Hospitality. McCoy leans against his desk on flattened palms, staring at the word. He imagines her dashing it off without a thought, the obvious word to define how she sees it all; he then imagines her agonizing over it, and simply coming up at a loss for anything else, anything to speak to the complicated mess it resembles.

He honestly can't decide which is more likely.

Nor can he stop being the kind of fool who cares too damn much.

The only distraction he can find is calling Joanna. Right in the middle of talking to her, drinking in her exuberance at seeing him, talking to him, having had Jocelyn tell her that her daddy was a hero, he gets called into a special debriefing for anyone who acted in the capacity of senior staff. So much for being on stand down. He has to cut her off with promises to visit soon, and go spend four hour straight going over -- and over again, and again, and _again_ , he could swear the admiralty has gone _deaf_ \-- every single detail he can recall of the interminable nightmare he's still not sure he's woken up from.

It's well into the afternoon before he's able to get to the crit care ward at Starfleet Medical, where at least he learns that Captain Pike is not only perfectly stable, but showing rapid improvement. There's a part of McCoy that's... not disappointed, exactly, but left at loose ends. He has nowhere he's required to be, nobody who needs him -- and Jim is not answering his damn comm.

He refuses to wonder where Christine is or what she's doing.

That way, he can already recognize, lies madness.

Near midnight, his door chimes a bare second before Jim lets himself in. His eyes are red-rimmed and glassy, but he's blazing with energy. "I'm not even gonna _ask_ you to guess," he announces. "No, wait. Changed my mind. Just try to _guess_ what happened today."

"You cured Irumodic Syndome," McCoy says flatly.

Jim grins.

McCoy gets a funny feeling that this can't possibly be good.

 

 

Less than three days later, Jim is a goddamn captain and McCoy has his own medical bay.

It's a medical bay desperately in need of repairs, but it's been promised to him just the same. It's a gift horse he doesn't particular feel like looking in the mouth. He lets Jim sling an arm around his shoulder and drag him out to the wharf for what appears to be the single largest gathering of overly stressed cadets in dire need of alcohol he's ever seen.

He can't really argue with that, either. Lord knows he knocks back a few shots of the good stuff himself, without so much as a second thought.

The crowd starts thinning out late, and he and Jim wind up in a booth, nursing their last beers. Jim is leaning across the table, rambling on about all number of insane schemes he's already got for his command, when a body drops into the booth next to McCoy. McCoy stares in surprise at Christine, who returns his gaze for a long moment before turning to Jim with a smile. "May I offer my congratulations, _Captain_?" she says.

Jim glances quickly at McCoy but recovers and leans over the table, props his chin in his hands and offers a smirk of a smile. "You may," he consents with exaggerated magnanimity. "May _I_ say you clean up nice -- this un-sooty look really works for you, brings out the eyes. Thumbs up, Nurse Chapel."

"Why, thank you," Christine says with a light laugh. "But please, call me Christine. It just seems right, you knowing all about me and all."

McCoy grimaces; Jim eyes Christine with interest. His hands fall to fold on the tabletop and his shoulders curve forward, like they're huddling. "I wouldn't say that," Jim says evenly. "I knew _of_ you. Whole different ballgame."

Christine sits back in frustration. "You're not going to tell me either, are you?"

Jim looks even more curious as McCoy rapidly shakes his head. "Tell you what?"

"What _this_ ," she says, jerking a thumb in McCoy's direction, "idiot told you about me. About how we... knew each other."

"Oh! That?" Jim's expression clears and he rolls his eyes at McCoy's glare of warning. "He met you once and really liked you? What, is that some big secret?"

McCoy breathes a sigh of relief at Jim's obfuscation, which just makes Christine scowl. She reaches over and steals his beer out from under his nose, lifts a challenging eyebrow that just dares him to protest as she takes a long sip. "You're both full of shit," she says bluntly, and dodges McCoy's effort to get his drink back. "Pardon the language, Captain. For God's sake, Leonard," she adds, sliding out of the booth and standing, "go buy a girl a drink or something. You're not getting this back until you do."

He can't help but cringe inside at the thought of leaving these two alone together, especially as Jim dissolves into laughter and lifts his own glass in a cheers of approval. "Fine," McCoy grumbles, shifting out of his seat. As he brushes by Christine, she smiles sweetly at him and sits back down, her eyes suddenly sparkling with mischief. "Jim -- "

"No worries, Bones!" Jim lays a hand over his heart. "I am a _vault_."

"Uh-huh." McCoy glances at Christine. "Keep in mind that he _is_ full of shit and you shouldn't believe a goddamn word he says."

His concerns seem warranted enough. By the time he returns with a beer for her, Jim and Christine are hunched over the table, everything about them screaming conspiracy and, McCoy decides with a sinking feeling, his own oncoming doom. Christine fixes him with a steady stare as he sits down. "He told me everything," she says.

McCoy glances at Jim. Jim blinks at him. Something in McCoy eases, tension releasing. "Bullshit," he snorts. "Nice work keeping your trap shut, kid."

"Thanks," Jim says brightly. "I do try, you know. You should tell her, though."

"So there is something to tell. Thought so."

McCoy groans. "Oh, for -- fine, you want to know? I told him -- "

"Oh, wait!" Jim cuts in. "Let me tell her. C'mon, please? I'm better at stories." McCoy glares; Jim grins. "Awesome. _So_ , Christine. I'd met this girl, you see. She was _great_. And me and Bones, we're sitting in a bar much like this one, and I tell him it's weird, it's only been like, _two_ days and I'm having all these crazy thoughts of dropping out and whisking her away for a life of romance and adventure. Which was, you know, _weird_. Two days, right? Talk about nuts."

McCoy stares pointedly across the bar, anywhere but at Christine, who says slowly, "Okay...."

"Well, Bones here, he says that's not so weird, he once had that happen in a single night." Jim laughs. "Not gonna lie, words like 'love' might have been bandied about."

Everything falls, to McCoy's ears, damningly silent. He can't bring himself to look at Christine. After long seconds, she clears her throat. "Um. Leonard, could I -- could I have a word? Somewhere private?"

He gets up without a word. All he can seem to see is Jim’s face, his sparkling eyes. “Jim,” he says tightly. “I’ll see you later.”

He doesn’t bother looking to see if Christine is behind him as he stalks out. There are smalls clusters of people milling around outside the bar, and he strides past to go to a clear section of the pier railing, where he braces his forearms against it and waits, staring out at the bay. After a few seconds, Christine’s petite form mimics his stance at his side. “Well, there you have it,” he says. “About accurate, too, which is a rare thing from Jim in story mode.”

“I’d still like to hear your version,” Christine says quietly. “And then I have something I need to tell you.”

Dread churns in his stomach. “Like I said, he had it right. He asked if two days was too soon to know if he was in love, and I -- I said I’d once managed it in a single night, so I supposed not. You can rest assured, I kept...the finer details to myself. So there’s that, at least. And... I was drunk, all right. It was a stupid thing to say.”

Christine is silent for a long moment. She finally turns to the side and reaches for his wrist, tugs him to face her. She doesn’t speak until he forces himself to look down at her, to see her somber expression. “Leonard,” she says, and then seems at a loss for words until she laughs weakly and rolls her eyes. “I went to find you, for Christ’s sake.” Her face goes pink. “That summer, before I came here. I went to Jackson.”

McCoy stares at her. “You want to run that by me again?” he asks dumbly, for want of anything better to say.

She sighs. “I went to Jackson,” she repeats. “Classes let out and I borrowed my roommate’s car -- told her I was going to the _store_ \-- and drove to fucking _Jackson_ because it was the only thing I _knew_ about you. I got all the way to the medical school.” She cuts her gaze away, leaves him with her profile, with the sharp, strong line of her jaw. “It’s not really something I’m proud of, or anything.”

McCoy finds that his mind keeps going in one direction, stalling out, and quickly jumping tracks in a useless effort to figure out what the hell to make of this. “What? Why wouldn't you --”

“Well, it was stupid,” she snaps with impatience that seems inward more than anything else. “And...I chickened out. It’s the only time in my life I have completely and totally lost my damn nerve. I just -- I sat there and told myself I was being a lovesick _idiot_ , and I couldn’t make myself get out of the car.” She bites her lip and runs a hand through her hair, trying to push it back while the wind keeps trying to whip it around her face. “I guess I couldn’t take the chance that you wouldn’t be happy to see me. So I went home. Then I came here.”

"And then you went out there," he breathes. "Just like you planned."

"Just like," she agrees. She suddenly looks up and frowns. "And I'm _still_ a little fuzzy on how to explain _you_ being here."

"If I ever figure it out, I'll let you know." He grimaces, even as she wraps her arms around herself and shivers, and he reaches out instinctively to pull her in and shield her from the wind. "I probably wouldn't have been happy to see you. I met my wife that spring."

“Oh god.” Christine beats her forehead a few times against his chest, then rests her cheek against it. “Well, thanks for that. It’s nice to finally have a reason to feel _glad_ I was such a coward.”

McCoy can’t help but laugh softly at that. He realizes her arms have slipped around him and finds himself hugging her close, running his hands up and down her back. “You know,” he murmurs, tipping his head down to lay his cheek on the top of hers, “a superstitious sort might think all this means something. There being a time and a place and that not being it, all that hooey.”

“I take it you’re _not_ the superstitious sort,” Christine says with dry amusement.

“Oh, I don’t know. I'm having to reevaluate some things, with everything that's just happened. Hell, it's gotta mean _something_ that I go crazy enough to be friends with Jim Kirk in more than one reality.” He combs fingers slowly through her hair. “Have to say, though, I’m finding it hard right now to think much beyond how badly I want to take you home and spend the night reliving the past.”

Christine goes very still in his arms, her body stiffening. After a moment, she draws away slowly, and he lets her go. His heart sinks as she levels a steady gaze on him. “There’s one more thing you should know,” she says. “I... am still not really wild about begging.”

And when he can see it, the teasing glint in her eyes, something rights itself inside him. Something calms and quiets. “Fair enough,” he tells her mildly. “But I’m willing to bet you’re still goddamn beautiful when you do. Take pity on an old fool and give me a chance to find out?”

She smiles slowly. "Should we tell Jim we're going?"

"Jim has an unhealthy belief that everything is somehow any of his goddamn business," McCoy says, and holds out a hand. "I try to do my part in reminding him he's dead wrong most of the time."

With a slow nod, Christine links her fingers in his. "I got a room nearby," she says quietly. "Ten minute walk."

 

 

He hadn't exactly meant it so literally about wanting to relive the past, not necessarily to the extent of leaving a bar with this woman only to proceed to a small hotel where, by the time they get there, he's aching to do any number of things with her. But that's what seems to be happening, and the biggest different he can discern is that where once she flashed impertinent smiles and drew him in with her irreverent charm, now he finds her quiet, steely strength to be at least twice as alluring.

He guesses they've both done their fair share of growing up over the years.

Christine doesn't drop his hand until they're inside her sparse, almost abrasively modern suite of rooms. "I can't really offer a drink or anything," she says apologetically. "I was waiting to see what my orders were before I stocked up on -- "

She cuts off abruptly as he pushes her back against the door with a satisfying thud, and he smiles sharply at her quick intake of breath. "You know, certain things are coming back to me now."

He can see her fighting down a smile as he leans in. "Such as?"

"The quickest way to make you stop talking so much," he mutters, and touches his lips to hers.

She holds still for all of an instant, a frozen blip in time where nothing in the world matters to him except the softness of her mouth. Then she makes a small sound, and her hand comes up to cup the back of his head, and at the first brush of her tongue he knows that it's over. He's done.

He's never going to be able to walk away from her again, not of his own volition. "Christine," he groans, and winds his arm around her waist. She hooks her own arms around his neck and her legs come up to squeeze helpfully around his hips when he lifts her. Her mouth is warm and sweet, bearing just the slightest sharp aftertaste of beer, and meeting him measure for measure in demand and need. It hits him in a flood of deja vu, the revelation she had presented that had sucked him in in the first place.

It's not that she's fearless, never has been.

It's that he's never seen her do anything but forge ahead, regardless, in pursuit of what she wants. He's got to be the luckiest bastard on earth, to have her set her sights on him not once but twice in a single lifetime. He presses his forehead to hers, noses aligned. "Christine," he says again, roughly. He squeezes his eyes shut. "Tell me now if this is -- if this is all you want. I need to know where we're going, here."

Christine doesn't respond immediately, and he feels disappointment settling in. His throat closes painfully when she lets her legs drop and twists carefully away from him, easing away from the cage presented by his body and the door. He presses his palms to the cool allow of the door and bows his head, focuses on swallowing, on breathing. "Hey," Christine finally says from somewhere deep in the room behind him. "This is sort of a group participation event, Leonard."

McCoy opens his eyes and turns, blinks at her. She's gone and stripped off her shirt while he's entertained his swirl of worry, and the second his eyes fix on her she shrugs her shoulders, lets her unclasped bra slip to the floor. "Christ," he breathes.

She just smiles and turns to pad off into the bedroom, hips swaying enticingly. By the time he gets his wits about him enough to follow after her, her skirt is a puddle of fabric abandoned in the middle of the floor and she's kneeling on the bed in nothing but a cotton scrap of underwear. This time she's the one to hold out an inviting hand, her fingers curling in a beckoning crook. "I want everything," she says softly, with a steady gaze. "I want _you_."

Everything in him chooses to believe her, to believe she means it as wholeheartedly as he wants her to. His shirt is easily dealt with in the space of two steps, his shoes toed off in a couple more, and his belt uncinched, pants unbuttoned, by the time he reaches her. "You've got me," he admits roughly, palming the curves of her waist and leaning in. "Hell, honey, somehow you've managed to have me for years."

Christine smiles into his warm kiss, a muffled laugh burbling out. She gets a handful of his hair in one fist and snakes her other hand into his shorts, teases his fast-growing erection with a loose grip and slow strokes. He takes his hands off her only long enough to push his pants and shorts down and kick them free, and when he touches her again, tugs her closer, her knees shimmy forward and her body arches back under the demanding force of his kiss.

But she gives as good as she gets, pulling hungrily at his mouth, dragging out a groan with the easy movement of her hand. "When I said I want you," she gets out, and lets her head fall back so he can explore her neck, "I pretty much meant _now_."

He pushes her down on the bed, takes a moment to watch her wriggle back. She's as fit and trim as ever but there's something a shade softer he can't quite put his finger on, something easier and alluring. She'd still been so young when he'd known her last, hadn't quite lost the fresh-faced elasticity of her teenage years. She's settled into herself now, into her body, owns it with the kind of casual grace that time brings on its heels.

McCoy leans over her and traces one finger across a faint scar slashed over one hip, just over the low waistband of her panties. "My first away mission." She presses his hand to lie flat across the lingering mark. "We were treating survivors of the territory skirmishes in Sector 518 and I was helping stabilize this kid pinned under the wall of his own house. Roof came down on us and I got that somehow. Infection was setting in by the time they managed to dig me out. It took fucking forever to heal."

He shakes his head slowly, lost in his perusal of every small detail, every faint freckle and blemish. "And you'd never even left New Orleans," he murmurs, as he hooks his fingers into her panties and drags them down.

Christine sits up just enough to slide her hands around his back and draw him down over her. She welcomes his weight with a loose hug, with her legs tucking over the backs of his. "Are you wishing I was still the same down home girl?"

"No," he says honestly. He kisses her chin, and then a path down her throat. "Just getting used to the woman you are now."

Her breath hitches when his lips reach and brush across one breast. "Am I really so different?" she asks, combing his hair back and holding his head to her.

McCoy flicks his gaze up at her, slides his tongue in a deliberate circle around the peak of her nipple. "I have a few ideas for finding out," he says in a low voice, and begins kissing his way down the flat plane of her stomach. Her hands stay in his hair and he considers ordering her to take them away, considers hearkening back in yet another way.

But he finds he likes the flex of her fingertips against his scalp as he presses her legs apart and drags his tongue along her folds for the first time in -- in what feels like far too long. The downward press of her hands and upward push of her hips, the taste of her and the sound of her soft moan, all of it forms a heady combination that makes him want nothing so much as to remind himself, quickly, of how good it had been to make her come.

Christine seems perfectly on board with the notion, judging from her easy, relaxed movements, the gentleness of her enthusiasm -- and then the gradual tightening of her thighs under his hands and her fists in his hair as he steadily increases the pace of his tongue against her clit. "Leonard," she gasps softly, and again he's tempted to tease, to ease off and let her pull back from the edge.

But again, he's overwhelmed by the desperate need to just see this through.

Something about her, he supposes, is just always going to make him a damn impatient son of a bitch.

When she comes, Christine bows up sharply and lets out a loud cry that sends a satisfied thrill down his spine and makes his cock leap. "Not so different at all," he mutters, mouthing at the smooth, thin skin where her leg joins her body.

Christine laughs shakily. "Same to you, I'd say," she mumbles. "C'mon up here, I"ll show you a few more things that are still the same."

The light tease in her voice makes him arch an eyebrow, look up at her in interest. "Yeah?"

Her smile may be older and more tempered, but it's no less genuine than when it held more of the playfulness of her youth. He surges up along her body and kisses it away, and drinks in her pleased moan as he guides himself into place and thrusts in. Her legs wrap around him and her head falls back. "God, _yes_ ," she gets out, just before he snaps in again. She's slick and hot and perfectly tight around him and later will have to be the time for finesse; for now he just _needs_ , to be in her and to be moving and to keep driving the sharp, pleased noises up and out of her throat.

Her nails dig into his back. "Harder," she gasps, clenching around him in rhythmic squeezes.

He's more than happy to indulge her, pushes up onto his arms and slapping into her with driven, rolling thrusts, gazing down at the flush pinkening her face and the dampened hair along her brow and temples. If he's honest with himself he has to admit that he doesn't fully understand the complicated tug of her beauty on him, never did figure out what it was about her that caught his eye more than anyone else in the crowded bar in New Orleans years ago. Only that it did, and then there was her voice and her humor and her laugh, the lush warmth of her body and the hints of shuttered things in her watchful eyes.

And now there's just so much more. He does love her, he realizes -- or he could, if life would just give him half a chance this time. He lowers his body and catches her mouth and pushes deep, comes with a spine-jarring rush of relief and relishes the soothing slide of her hands along his shoulders throughout the final rocks of his hips. "Christine," he murmurs, mouthing along her jaw. "God."

She clings to him even as he slips out and stretches out on his side, presses a kiss to his shoulder and stays close, tangles their legs together. "You were thinking something," she says quietly, after a minute of silence. "There, at the end. I could see it -- what was it?"

He sighs. "Twelve hours," he admits. "I was thinking about how it was twelve hours we had, and I'm thirty years old and that shouldn't even be a blip on the radar. I used to tell myself that every time I had some crazy thought about getting in touch with you. Told myself to stop building fantasies on twelve. Damn. Hours."

She gazes at him and trails fingertips along his eyebrow. "And?" she finally says.

"And..." He shrugs awkwardly with one shoulder. "It's hardly the same thing, I know, but what happened out there...it was so goddamn fast, and it will matter forever. Who's to say twelve hours can't be more than enough?"

"I..." Her brow crinkles, her eyes darkening with hesitant confusion. "I'm not sure what you're trying to say," she finally admits.

"Crazy things," he mutters, and steals a slow, lazy kiss. "Things I knew then as well as I know them now. I just want more time, Christine. I want to wake up tomorrow and not have to think that this is it. This is all I'll ever get with you."

For what feels like a long time, Christine stares at him, her eyes unreadable. "Leonard," she says eventually. Her mouth tips in a wry smile. "What part of 'I want everything' was difficult to understand?" When he just watches her, hardly willing to let her meaning sink in and ease his fears, her expression takes on a sad tinge. "Taking things for granted," she reminds him. "I don't want to anymore. I'd rather...see where this goes."

Where it goes, he thinks. It falls far short of a promise, is barely anything beyond an implied beginning.

It's a far cry from nothing.

He'll take it.


End file.
